


The Key

by f_m_r_l



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_m_r_l/pseuds/f_m_r_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>RDJ!Holmes can't pick locks. When Watson makes a deal with Irene to learn the art of lock picking, he may learn more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Key

Watson sank into his favorite chair and reached for his glass of brandy, only mildly impeded by stacks of old teacups, beakers full of mysterious half dried substances, papers, arcane parts to unknown devices, and assorted clutter all piled haphazardly in a precarious and possibly experimental balance. It was just a pity that the brandy bottle was clear over on the sideboard; it showed a lack of foresight that betrayed his weariness. At least today hadn't involved running, or fighting, or hiking all over London while following clues. He considered whether walking over to stir up the fire would return in comfort his investment in pain as he put the wrong stresses on his leg, then decided it could wait until the next time he had to stand.

There would be no more kicking down doors.

Of course, that was easy to say now, when he was at home recovering in front of the fire. When he was standing outside a door in the company of a man who was obviously fumbling with lock picks and every minute that passed was another in which a policeman might catch them, the risk of being picked up and sentenced to several months hard labor for house breaking seemed more urgent than the need to cosset his injuries. _One_ of them was going to need to learn to pick locks quickly and inconspicuously. Given that Holmes already thought of himself as an expert, it wasn't going to be Sherlock Holmes who would be seeking to acquire the expertise.

Just months ago, it had looked like he'd be out of this. He'd even moved away from Baker Street. Now he was back again, Mary gone and his practice never quite as important as Holmes's moods, Holmes's cases, Holmes....

♦  ♦

  


"Everyone in town knows you've been asking about screwing," the little old lady who occupied the park bench next to him murmured down into her knitting. Watson started upon hearing the thieves' cant for picking locks dropping from the mouth of such an apparently respectable personage. "Even the police have caught on. Fortunately, everyone but you, Holmes, and me think that you're trying to track down that ring of jewel thieves."

Watson cursed quietly under his breath. He'd always been horrible at spotting disguises, and even worse at distinguishing who was wearing them. Was that a wig? Powdered hair? Did those lace mittens cover missing age spots or calloused hands? He was pretty sure that the woman wasn't Holmes, but only because she'd mentioned Holmes.

"You are far too old to become a locksmith's apprentice. And no criminal is going to be stupid enough to teach screwing to the bosom friend of Sherlock Holmes. You will need my help if you want to learn enough to protect our detective."

" _My_ detective," Watson muttered, now certain he was speaking with Irene Adler. Aloud he said "Are you proposing to tutor me? And what would you like in return?"

The speculative look Irene gave him should have been much more disturbing, considering her apparent age.

"No," Watson said. "Whatever it is, no." That hadn't really worked with Gladstone. It had never worked with Holmes. And Watson had the feeling that it wasn't going to work with Irene _at all_.

Fifteen minutes later, the good doctor was walking a little old lady home, her grasp heavy on his arm.

♦  ♦

  


"Oh, Mrs. White, have you met my new doctor? His name is Doctor Watson, and he's been ever so helpful with my hysteria!" Irene trilled in a voice that only shook a little with feigned age. Mrs. White was a short, round collection of wrinkles and smiles, wrapped in so many layers it seemed a wonder she could move at all. She stretched out the introductions, requests for medical advice, and flirtations for as long as possible before Watson and Irene were able to escape the foyer into Irene's flat.

"Irene, I am _not_ treating that woman for hysteria!" Watson was looking somewhat red and flustered himself.

"Don't have a paroxysm." Irene smiled wickedly. "I never said you would. But now you have a perfect reason to be stopping by my flat on a regular basis and staying for an extended period of time. Mrs. White is the biggest gossip in the neighborhood. Everybody will know exactly what her opinion is by dinnertime this evening. And _you_ charmed her."

Embarrassed, Watson looked away from Irene's face and took in the sight of her sitting room. Every surface was covered in flamboyantly but not delicately feminine equipage — silk scarves, feathered and painted ivory fans, elaborately carved and ornamented boxes, and locks. The displays of different types of locks, arranged like any home display of shells or butterflies or the like, took up several small étagères, with overflow landing on bookshelves, end tables, and elsewhere.

"Please have a seat." Irene gestured and he sat where indicated. "I knew you would come, so I picked up a few things here and there." She started removing her disguise, mittens landing on a console table, wig stowed on a form in a cabinet, as she strolled around the room. "I have all the standard styles of locks, all the recent advances, and a _very_ handy assortment of handcuffs," Irene purred. She continued to stroll, coming up behind him.

"But you would like to know the terms of my offer. Sherlock and I have a sort of... game." Watson could feel her breath against his cheek as she leaned over the back of the chair, and a fingernail traced the outer helix of his ear. "Certain things pass back and forth between us, sometimes without strict permission." Watson dodged to one side and managed not to sigh with relief as Irene stood up and walked around in front of him. "I plan to do a slight amount of burglary against a person who has some stolen property — so no real harm done. I need you to distract her and the man who's watching her. You won't even need to do anything illegal. Just visit her and use the charm that has amazed the women of three continents."

"And nothing else?" There would be something else. And complications. And a great many things she wasn't telling him. But he had to ask.

"I may ask for something else after this job. But that won't be part of our arrangement and will be entirely up to you." She gave him a coy look, a look that from Irene usually indicated a coming storm of trouble.

"Could you be so kind as to stop flirting with me? I am not going to be one of the ways in which you are unfaithful to Holmes."

"Oh, and I was _so_ looking forward to being one of the ways in which _you_ were! Do you honestly think that Holmes and I expect fidelity of each other? Would you wish that kind of _constant_ disappointment on me?"

Irene waved her hand dismissively. "But I'm not trying to seduce you. I simply must have my fun. Meet me back here on Tuesday at two, and we'll start your instruction." Watson stood to show himself out.

"Just a minute, hand me your collar," she demanded as he started towards the door. In a moment the inside of his collar had been rubbed against her skin, transferring some of her distinctive perfume and crumpling it slightly, making it impossible to restore to its original form, even without the problem of retying his cravat. Shortly after he'd given up on them, Irene reached up and rubbed some of her lip rouge into the corner of his mouth and mustache. "Sherlock is going to know you've seen me. I'd prefer he not know exactly what we're up to. Call it part of the game." And with that, she allowed him to be on his way.

As Watson walked home, he concentrated on the beauty of the evening around him, the sound of his shoes and cane on the paving, the cries of the vendors, anything to keep himself from pondering exactly what he had gotten himself into this time.

♦  ♦

  


"He's in one of his black moods again," warned Mrs. Hudson as Watson walked through the front door of 221b. "I wouldn't go up there for love nor money."

But Watson had a shock when he walked into the sitting room. It had been neatened. The table was set with a tablecloth and silver candlesticks, the expanse almost covered in plates of small delicacies instead of weapons, papers, and experiments in progress. Holmes himself was freshly scrubbed, shaved, combed and dressed in clean clothing, leaning facing out the window as though trying to appear casually relaxed.

"There is a topic I wish to discuss with you, old boy." Holmes turned, a nervous smile on his face, and then stopped, his attention suddenly fixed. He crossed the room quickly and Watson was alarmed to find the detective sniffing at his collar, then wiping lip rouge from the corner of his mustache and examining it with a fierce scowl.

"You do know she's using you for something.... Has she a need for a canoe?" Holmes threw Watson's words back in his face. The detective's ability to stare down his nose at Watson was remarkable, given that the difference in heights did not favor him. "You recall what happened the last time you became involved with a woman."

Watson winced. "As if you had any room to talk."

Holmes fixed him with a glare, then turned and stalked off to his bedroom. Watson stared after him, noting as Holmes opened the door that for once there was a path to the bed and the bed was even made perfectly. Whatever mood had taken him had apparently, for once in his life, involved cleaning. Holmes slammed the door behind himself.

Watson wasn't quite sure how things had gone wrong so quickly. They'd need to talk. There was hope that Holmes would be back out in not too terribly long, not being able to resist coming back for the oysters at least, if not any of the other delicacies on the table. Watson passed over the anise coriander biscuits, roasted pine nuts, and caviar to grab a handful of walnuts and settle back into his favorite chair to wait, determined not to nod off. But the fire was cozy, the chair comfortable, and Watson very weary.

Watson dreamed that he was licking music off of Holmes's hands, naked body against naked body as he explored every crease and curve of them with his tongue, tasting each note sharp or mellow against the salt of skin. There was a symphony in Holmes's palms, and Holmes writhed under his attentions through every stanza and the coda. But it was nothing to the small whimpers and moans Holmes made when Watson discovered that the upper staff had twined itself up Holmes's fingers, and Watson, one by one, sucked them in entirely.

Watson awoke stiff and uncomfortable. By the sound of the traffic in the street it was just at the edge of dawn. There had been no sign of Holmes.

♦  ♦

"I don't think," Watson said as he looked up from a tricky lock, "that trying to make Holmes jealous of you is quite working." He had been getting together with Irene several times a week for over a month by this time. Irene had continued her little flirtations, without ever seriously offering anything. She also made occasional jokes about his relationship with Holmes that he didn't know how to take. Was she just trying to get under his skin, or did she know how Watson felt about the detective? Both? Was it supposed to be a challenge? Still, on the whole, she had been a remarkably patient and accomplished teacher. Watson surmised that whatever she was after meant a great deal to her.

And perhaps what she was after _was_ Holmes, but Holmes had made no romantic overtures towards her. Irene would have flaunted it if Holmes had. Regardless, each and every time Watson left Irene's house, she had done something to his clothing beforehand. At one point he'd been left standing mostly undressed behind a screen as she did heaven knows what to his pants and undershirt. Or maybe Mrs. Hudson knew what — she'd scowled at him for a week after that one laundry day.

"Oh, I _know_ that Holmes is _quite_ jealous. And extremely envious of me." Irene looked smug, as she so often did. It was almost enough to make Watson believe that one of the areas in which Irene competed with Holmes was smugness.

Watson had just begun to parse Irene's statement when the lock he was working on yielded with a muffled click and the thought was lost in his feelings of jubilation. He had picked nearly every lock in the place by now. He could quickly let himself into the average house and out of the newer handcuffs. (As for the older ones, they took forever to get on _or_ off, and, as Irene reminded him, they made an extremely effective cosh.) He had even learned a bit of cracking on an old wall safe she had; in theory he should be able to get into the more standard safes, given enough time.

Irene prowled over and looked at the open lock, leaning close to do so. "Is it true that you have had experience with charming women on three continents? You know I'm not a lady; you can tell me. Besides, I've already had your ears between my thighs." She winked. But she did come across as genuinely curious, though terribly forward. "And _what_ experience, exactly?"

"When do you think we'll be ready to do that burglary? Isn't my experience _there_ more important?" Watson gathered his hat and cane and prepared to edge towards the door.

"You forget, your part in the burglary is to be charming. Would you please answer the question?"

Watson cleared his throat. His one consolation was that nobody would believe a word Irene said, especially not Holmes. "Dances. Teas. Walks in the park. On two of the three continents my experience was limited to proper social occasions." Watson's collar seemed tighter than it had that morning, and it was beginning to feel a little too warm in Irene's rooms.

"Mary possessed the most beauty I'd ever encountered in a woman, on any occasion, on any of those continents. When I told Holmes that, he took it in a... lewd manner and would not let it rest. But my charm should certainly be sufficient for a front parlor." With that, he made his escape, managing to evade Irene to the extent that only a bit of her face powder smudged his sleeve. It was a temporary escape, but at least his private life was his until next Tuesday. He pretended not to hear as Irene called after him "And what about men?"

♦  ♦

"No, dear fellow, I don't think I'll have any use for you today." Holmes pocketed his own revolver and some extra ammunition. "The case I'm working on involves a very beautiful criminal — or so I've been told — and I know how you are around beautiful women. We wouldn't want you getting distracted and letting her _go_ or some such. You go run off and play with your friend." His superior look would drive Watson mad eventually.

Watson gave Holmes a few minutes to get down the stairs and out the door, then slipped out to follow him. He could just see Holmes's battered homburg and faded black overcoat down the block near the corner, sliding between flower girls, delivery men, nannies, thugs, and other unconcerned inhabitants of the city. Watson followed as best he can, pressing through the odoriferous crowd, almost losing Homes at every second, and occasionally frustrated by the urge to beat the intervening masses of humanity out the of way with his cane. Finally, in an area of the city that was not entirely disreputable but _was_ thoroughly worn with faded paint, chipped brick, cracked mortar and missing cobblestones, he lost track of the man entirely. How could a man who was six foot three simply disappear?

Scan the crowds as he would, it was no use. He was tired, pained, and vague about his exact way home. Now would be an excellent time to sit down in a public house and buy himself a pint while thinking over his options. As it turned out, there was one right down the block.

Watson squinted in the dim interior light as he walked in, making out the shapes of men as sturdily built as the furniture — and appearing just as hard worn. "Doc, what brings you down here? I heard you were off working with Sherlock Holmes!" The speaker had leaned over and grabbed his arm as he passed. Looking down, Watson was able to make out some vaguely familiar features. "Or are you on a case?" the man belatedly whispered.

"Tom Harris! I hadn't expected to see you here!" Watson had last seen the man across a losing hand on a different continent. There was no point in asking what had brought Harris back; the missing leg was obvious enough.

"Sorry to have heard about Mary.  She always seemed like such a steady girl." Harris stared into his empty glass.

"You knew her?"

"Knew her? She boarded with my family when she was at school. Very smart, very polite," Harris grinned "very calm about finding frogs in her desk. I haven't seen here since then, of course."

"I suppose that her parents may have formed some aversion to the match after all. I never was at my best in front of them."

"Her parents? She'd found her father?  He'd remarried?" Harris appeared to be very pleasantly surprised. He really had cared for Mary.

"I hadn't known that he had ever been missing; if he'd run off with another woman, though, it would explain why they never mentioned it. But he was with Mary's mother, and they appeared to be doing well." Watson motioned the barman over and had him bring Harris another beer.

Harris slumped.  "That's not my Miss Morstan. There must be two. The one I knew was motherless almost from birth, and her father'd disappeared over a decade ago." Harris took another pull at his beer. "She hired Martin Hewitt to find him but nothing ever came of it.1 The last time I talked with her, she'd taken a governess job with a family that was moving to India. I'd hoped she'd found something better with you."

It was four beers, several hours, and a flood of reminiscences later before Watson realized he'd missed his appointment with Irene. Too late now,evening was coming on, but at least he should be getting home.

When he stepped out onto the street, there ahead of him was that familiar battered homburg and jacket, retreating the direction he'd come from the morning. He was able to follow it almost all of the way back to Baker Street, losing sight of the figure only when he was back on familiar ground.

♦  ♦

Holmes was in a chipper mood that evening. "While _you_ have been out enjoying the _dubious_ company of the _infamous_ Irene Adler, Constable Clark and I have been out catching jewel thieves." Holmes's hat, jacket, and collar — well, Watson's jacket and who knows whose hat — had all made their way to places that made sense only to Holmes, and he was in the process of removing his cuffs. "I believe Constable Clark shows great promise." The cufflinks were shoved into Holmes's waistcoat pocket, the waistcoat removed and tossed in the direction of his bedroom door. "And his mustache is even fuller than yours. I may have found your replacement."

Holmes ignored Watson's glare as he continued. "We've arrested the screwsman and his assistant, and we're preparing to move in on the woman who acted as a scout, one Helen Taylor. It seems she stole some unfortunate governess's letters of introduction and recommendation and found employment with a rich family. She used that as her base of operations for months, even going so far as to trap some poor fellow into an engagement so that she could acquire more introductions among his friends."

"I suppose you feel this supports your theories on women."

"It supports my observations on personal considerations. You will recall that I've told you that that the most winning woman I ever knew was a  murderess."2 Holmes was suddenly so close that Watson could map the flecks of color in the detective's eyes, eyes that were staring into his own as if waiting for something. After a tense moment of utter stillness, the detective broke away. "Perhaps at some point, someone will prove me wrong. Good night."

With that, Holmes was off to his bedroom — once again a mess of sliding papers and other accumulations — and Watson was left alone in the sitting room again, missing past evenings of quiet companionship.

♦  ♦

When Watson arrived at Irene's flat the next morning, he found all of the frippery had been packed away and there was a small pile of trunks next to the door. Irene announced that the burglary would happen that afternoon. "You've learned all you needed to learn from me. The rest is practice. And I need to leave London soon."

"Here's a map of our destination," she continued, "I'll be coming in from the back way, so you won't see me. But I've scouted things out, and I've found a vantage point where I'll be able to see when you've gained entrance."

"It's very important that the person who's watching the house notice your arrival," Irene's lips quirked and her eyes looked briefly skywards, "so you'd better try to look as though you're attempting to sneak past him. Send in this visiting card, and when you're let in go talk with the lady of the house. That's all you have to do. I've bribed the servants to leave then."

The visiting card was of a less expensive and commonly seen ecru stock. The card read "Mr. John Smythe" in an almost illegibly elaborate script across the front. Holmes would have been able to read volumes from the card; Watson felt lucky to have been able to penetrate the obfuscation of the typeface.

"John Smythe," Irene continued, "is a smuggler. Our target knows she is being watched and believes John Smythe will smuggle her out of the country. Unfortunately for her, John Smythe is a fiction meant only to let you in the front door in a seemingly respectable manner. Once you are in the parlor, you may distract our target in any way you wish."

"Irene?"

"Yes?"

"The lady of the house wouldn't happen to be named 'Helen,' would she?"

"I believe so."

"Is the person watching the house from Scotland Yard or is it Holmes?"

"John! What a question! I would never set you up to try and charm one of the inspectors Scotland Yard!" Irene smiled. "Unless it was Lestrade. I think he quite likes you. And Holmes, of course, is in love with you."

"Stop it." Watson took off his hat and threw it down on the table. "Enough of your insinuations and implications. I know you know. But do you think you can _mock_ me, just because my affections for him are illegal?" Watson advanced towards Irene. "Do you think it's _fun_ to tease me with what I can never have?" By this point he was almost inches from her face. "Do you think I have been oblivious to your barbs?" He continued more quietly. "Bargain or no, we shall not work together unless you stop being cruel on this one matter."

"You didn't know, did you?" Irene's face was briefly filled with wonder. "Three continents and a war, and you still couldn't tell that he's in love with you. You may want to talk with him about that, later. _After_ our burglary."

♦  ♦

By the time Watson proffered the visiting card to the servant, the edges were already slightly blunted from his nervous handling of it. Nonetheless, it got him in through the front door and into a worn, drab, little sitting room furnished with mismatched pieces and decorated with cheap prints.

A couple of minutes later a woman walked in through the parlor door carrying a tea tray. She was the most beautiful woman that he had seen, even after an experience of women spanning three continents. "Mary!" Watson exclaimed, taking the tea she passed. He noted that it was already fixed exactly the way he liked it and he took a nervous sip. "Are you working here? Where's Miss Taylor?" As he took another sip, he realized that there was no possible way Mary could be working here. A moment later everything came together for him, almost with a mental 'click.' Unfortunately, by that point he had already nervously finished his cup of tea.

"I suppose you were going to signal that odious Mr. Holmes to come in once you saw I was here? Why couldn't you leave well enough alone?!" Watson found himself too preoccupied to answer, trying to catalog his symptoms and hypothesize over whether he had just been slipped a poison or a sedative. But Mary... right, Helen... did look well and truly vexed, so she might still feel something for him. By that point he found that he couldn't move his limbs with any force or control, merely managing to throw himself onto the floor in his efforts to rise.

"I was going to tie you to the chair, but I'm never going to be able to get you back up there on my own." Watson was surprised that she had the cool nerve to sigh over that. "You're just going to have to make do with the floor." The way she tied him to the legs of the settee would have been relatively easy to escape — if he'd still had the ability to raise the couch and slip the ropes out from under the legs. At least if he recovered he wouldn't be left like this indefinitely.  And he couldn't feel the awful kinks that were no doubt working themselves in to his limbs.

The gag, on the other hand, was considerably less comfortable, he mused, as he watched Helen throwing almost random things into a small bag. It looked like she was planning to slip out the back door. Right. The back door. Watson immediately began to struggle and yell as noisily as he could, hoping to alert Irene to watch out.

Within minutes he heard footsteps pounding _towards_ him from the back of the flat. Irene hurled into the room, wielding a knife, and straight into Helen's extremely substantial open umbrella. Irene pressed on, regardless, dodging this way and that to try to get around the umbrella, which was standing up to her knife slashes unexpectedly well. "You beribboned Judas," she hissed, "you will tell me what you gave him and what the antidote is before I carve you into dog food. It wasn't enough to just betray him?"

Helen gave a triumphantly spiteful look, reaching for the doorknob behind her and starting to open the door while continuing to fend off Irene with the umbrella. "It's nothing _you_ haven't done to dozens of men. Are you upset because I got to him first?"

The door abruptly swung open the rest of the way, and Holmes pushed through it, grabbing Helen and pinning her arms from behind. "I would hope, my good lady, that the difference would be obvious." Holmes shifted and, after a brief struggle, managed to secure Helen with his handcuffs. "He is _our_ Watson." Helen simply glowered, silently, in return. Holmes smirked at Irene. "And I'm sure you at least gave them good value for their money."

"The police should be arriving here at any moment, now that everything's finished. You may not wish to meet with them, Irene. I'll take Helen out to meet London's finest and leave you here to make your adieus. _Do_ remember that it is a _barter_ system." Holmes dragged a protesting Helen out the door as Irene cut Watson loose and propped him up against the settee.

Irene looked after Holmes for a moment, then flourished a very familiar looking ring. "I will leave him the diamond. Or I will leave him you. But I will not leave him both, and which one he keeps is up to you."

Watson started to turn, body still responding sluggishly, to look out the window towards Holmes, when Irene reached out and turned his face back to hers. "It's not up to him," she said. "It's up to you. We could be together as you have been with Holmes — or as Holmes wishes to be with you, if you prefer. I find I like the feeling of having someone reliable at my back."

"As do I," Watson responded. He suspected he was going to miss her, regardless. "You know he's going to get that diamond back, eventually. But good luck."

"I'll see you next time I'm in London, then." Irene planted a sudden kiss on the corner of his mouth, then slipped out towards the back door. She would slip away, once again.

♦  ♦

  
Constable Clark helped Holmes get Watson into a carriage. He was definitely not up to walking. He didn't care to wonder yet how he was going to get up those seventeen steps to their rooms. Simply walking through the front door hadn't been much of an improvement after all.

Holmes climbed in and dropped back against the leather upholstery across from him. "I suppose the diamond's long gone." Having solved the case and turned over the malefactor, Holmes appeared once more to be slouching towards terminal ennui. Once the driver was alerted that they'd settled in, the horses started clopping their leisurely way back towards Baker Street.

"You'll get it back again." Watson had not felt quite so nervous since coming home from Afghanistan. Perhaps that was telling; he hadn't felt nearly this nervous when he'd proposed to Mary. But he was determined not to show it.

"Possibly. But bartered for something a little less dear." When Watson looked up sharply, Holmes continued, "Yes, of course I knew. She was hardly subtle this time, our Irene."

" _Your_ Irene."

"I think you'll find differently." Holmes grinned at the look of distress on Watson's face.

"So what was this about _our_ Watson?"

" _My_ Watson. You stayed." Holmes's smile was gloriously unlike a smirk. The look he gave Watson was full of unexplored possibilities. 3  


* * *

  
1 With apologies to the excellent Martin Hewitt and his creator Arthur Morrison. You can read some of his adventures [here](http://books.google.com/books?id=9JI7AAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=martin+hewitt&hl=en&ei=f9FJTM2tJYycsQOzsclI&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=3&ved=0CDEQ6AEwAg#v=onepage&q&f=false) or [here](http://books.google.com/books?id=pgOw_Dn92UAC&pg=PA1&dq=martin+hewitt#v=onepage&q&f=false).  
2 _Sign of the Four_  
3 In "The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire," Holmes says to Watson "There are unexplored possibilities about you."


End file.
